


Feathers

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, M/M, Praise Kink, Touch-Starved, Touching, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Sometime after the thwarted apocalypse, an angel asks to see his demon's wings.





	Feathers

“May I see them?”

Aziraphale’s voice is soft. Shy, almost.

Crowley’s eyes widen behind the dark lenses of his glasses and he shifts away from the angel uncertainly.

“ _What_?” he sputters, alarm bells starting to sing in the back of his skull. “See my-my-”

He stammers and Aziraphale’s smile softens. The angel closes some of the distance between them, reaching out to brush the demon’s shoulder.

“Your wings,” he says, glancing from the empty space at Crowley’s back to meet his reflection in the demon’s glasses. “May I see them?”

They’re sitting on the floor of his shop, surrounded by silent and very much intact books. Candlelight flickers all around them, casting Aziraphale’s haven in soft, warm light. The blanket they sit on is knitted in vibrant colors that look like a Peter Max work of art. Crowley vaguely remembers giving it to the angel sometime in the mid-60s.

Why?

He can’t quite recall.

“You’ve seen my wings,” he says, some of his old bravado back and he waves the angel away, turning back to the half-empty bottle of wine-their third one so far this evening. “They’re nothing to look at. Big, black. Demon-y.”

“I think they’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale’s voice is so soft Crowley almost misses the words. Almost. He jumps, spilling a few drops of the very good wine on the blanket and blushes when Aziraphale chuckles. The angel steadies his hand, pouring a glass for himself as well before reaching out once more to do that peculiar touch on Crowley’s shoulder.

“The first time I saw them, at the Garden,” he says, sipping his wine and gazing thoughtfully once more into that empty space at Crowley’s back. “You tucked them low and tried to hide them.” He cocks his head and frowns a bit. “Why do you hide them, Crowley?”

The gentle stroke of his fingers on the demon’s shoulders burns through his layers of black clothing but it is not an unpleasant burn. It is...a heated, bright, warm touch that sets Crowley’s skin aflame and awakens a not entirely unwelcome feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He shudders, leaning into the angel’s touch, some base part of him longing for more.

They’d touched of course, over their long centuries together. They’d shared glances and hand brushes and Crowley had draped himself over the angel too many times for counting.

But rarely had Aziraphale instigated these passing caresses.

Rarely had the angel reached for his hand or held him.

Rarely.

But tonight…

The angel is stroking the empty space where his wings hover in the ethereal plane. And his light blue eyes are sparkling with something unknown.

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice cracks and his slitted eyes flutter closed. For some reason he leans closer, body almost yearning towards the softer, smaller man.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks, laughter underlying his words and there’s a soft rustle as he shifts closer, both hands resting on Crowley’s shoulders now. His fingers ease low, rucking Crowley’s blazer and the demon shudders, every bit of his attention focusing on this unusual petting.

Somewhere in the ethereal, his wings flutter and seek to flare out beneath the ghostly touch of the angel.

“Your books,” Crowley murmurs, weakly, head bowing and forehead pressing to the angel’s.

Aziraphale makes a tsking noise. “There’s room,” he says and his fingers are very low now. If his wings were present on this earthly plane, the angel would be stroking the small, downy feathers rippling over the demon’s humerus. “You won’t hurt my books, my dear.”

Crowley risks a glance from behind the dark lenses of his glasses and sure enough, where before their small space had been surrounded by piles and stacks and shelves full of books, now there is a wide open, circular space. Even the candles had been safely tucked out of the way, their flames flickering behind delicate, fluted glass.

Aziraphale is close now, his unearthly warmth washing over Crowley-a soft, sweet warm smell-and the demon takes a deep, open-mouthed breath, inhaling the very particular scent that belongs solely to the angel.

He smells like books. And cocoa. Tweed. Ambrosia.

He smells like comfort.

Crowley doesn’t realize his hands have risen to rest around the full curve of Aziraphale’s waist-mere inches from where the angel’s own wings rest-waiting in the ethereal. He doesn’t realize he’s pulling the other man closer.

Not until they’ve risen on their knees, chests pressed together and his face is tucked into the angel’s throat. Before he can stop himself, his tongue darts out, tasting the heady air around their bodies and Aziraphale’s scent nearly drowns him.

The angel’s fingers pause in their soft, determined stroking and he pulls back slightly, a surprised laugh rocking through his chest.

“Did you-did you just _taste me_ , Crowley?” he asks, one hand moving to cup the demon’s narrow chin. Crowley flushes, lips pressing tight but then Aziraphale’s smile softens and the angel’s eyes are sparkling with laughter.

And he relaxes in the angel’s grip.

“Nature and all that, angel,” he says, lips curling into his cocky smirk.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and runs a single finger along the invisible ridge of bone emerging from Crowley’s corporeal shoulder. There’s a faint spark, a tickle of otherworldly energy, a mimic of that first flicker of power that had started this whole mess 6,000 years ago.

Shadows limn his form for a brief moment, swirling and coalescing along his tense shoulders.

And Crowley hisses a breath between clenched teeth as his wings unfurl in the book shop, gleaming darkly in the candlelight.

That peculiar heat washes through his body once more, pooling with the other bizarre sensation in his belly and he arches his back a bit, groaning.

“Ah, angel, warn a demon before you play God,” he mutters, ruffling first one wing and then the next before drawing them close to his back. “It’s rude to pull a man’s wings out without asking.”

Aziraphale does nothing but stare for a moment, for the first time in nearly six millennia allowing himself to truly look at Crowley.

Black wings, all sharp angles and lines, sweep up and out from the demon’s shoulders. The pinion feathers gleam black. But they’re not truly black. Not really. They catch the candlelight, shades of green and blue mingling with the sleek velvety ebony shades.

They rather remind him of a night sky in winter, when the Northern Lights can be seen if you’re far enough away from London.

“They’re beautiful,” he says running a finger along the smooth spine of a primary feather and in the corner of his eye he sees the demon shiver, flames reflecting for a moment in the black lenses of his glasses. “You don’t have to keep them so close, Crowley,” he says reaching up now to trail his fingers over the tops of the other man’s right wing, so gentle. “I would very much like to see all of you.”

There is a hidden meaning in his words. Something...else.

Crowley stares down into his eyes, brow furrowing as his sluggish brain tries to catch up.

Six thousand years they’d known each other. Six thousand years they’d circled each other, teasing and foiling feeble plots. Six thousand years and Aziraphale had drawn him like an iron to a magnet.

He barely understands the words the angel is saying or his gentle caresses.

But Satandammit. He wants more.

“I showed you mine,” he drawls now, one hand easing slowly up the angel’s back to press against his shoulder blade. His fingers stroke invisible pinion feathers and the angel’s eyes flutter closed. Aziraphale sighs at his touch, his fingers clenching a bit on Crowley’s wing, anchoring himself to the demon. “You show me yours,” Crowley finishes, smiling, and there’s another spark.

Candles flicker once more, their flames buffeted by the merging of the corporeal plane with the ethereal. The very air within the shop stills. Crowley’s tongue flicks a bit past his lips, tasting his companion and his eyes widen at the sight of white light spilling from the other man’s khaki clothed form.

Where Crowley’s wings are dark, far larger versions of a raven’s wings, Aziraphale bears the wings of a bird of prey.

Of a hawk.

All elegant curves, gleaming gold and white. Blinding in their purity.

They unfurl there in the bookshop, arching and proud. The very tips brush the gilt spines of his precious books and the breath leaves Crowley’s lungs-as it always has when Aziraphale takes his true form before his eyes.

“Ah,” Aziraphale sighs, head falling back on his shoulders. “It does feel good to stretch a bit, doesn’t it, my dear?”

The angel’s wings ripple, a few loosened feathers falling free to drift across the floor, tangling with some of Crowley’s own molted down. Dark and light, trailing together, buffeted by the men shifting and their soft breaths.

Aziraphale cocks his head, that strange, gentle but uncertain smile curling his lips now and he presses an open palm to Crowley’s hammering heart.

“Crowley?” he asks, a delicate frown starting to furrow his brow. “Are you all right?”

The demon shakes himself, dragging his gaze away from the golden glow that is Aziraphale to glance over his shoulder at his own meager spread.

“Yeah angel,” he says, preparing to put the blasted things away. “I’m fine.”

Before he can put his wings back, though, Aziraphale is pressed tight to him once more. His softness eases into Crowley’s hard angles and the demon’s breath catches in his lungs when Aziraphale’s hands rise to cup his cheeks.

“Don’t put them away,” the angel murmurs, blue eyes slightly panicked. “Not yet.” His fingers stroke over Crowley’s face, moving to tangle in the short hair at the back of his neck and he smiles. “I rather like the look of them, you know?” He gazes up at the demon’s dark wings. “Always did. They catch the light in such a peculiar way.” He reaches out to stroke a trembling feather. “They remind me of the stained glass in a cathedral.”

Crowley snorts at that, shaking his head. “Stained glass?” he repeats, blushing. “You’re daft angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “But they do!” he exclaims and he strokes Crowley’s closest wing once more, lingering along the sensitive bones close to the demon’s shoulder blade. Crowley shudders at the caress, once more leaning into the angel’s softer body and he sighs.

“They gleam in the light, you know,” Aziraphale says, voice thoughtful and that small puckering of his brow is back, the consternated wrinkle Crowley has seen when the man is trying to understand a particularly complex problem or riddle. He rather loves that wrinkle. It usually heralds mischief on the angel’s part. “They remind me of how dawn filters through blue and green glass, to spill across marble flagstones. They aren’t truly black, you know, dear. They’re...quite elegant!”

The soft praise warms Crowley. Lights a veritable fire under his skin.

No one has ever looked at his wings and called them elegant.

He has avoided looking at them for millennia, their black shame always a heavy shadow at his back.

Now, though, with the angel’s comforting touch and soft words of praise echoing in his ears, he glances over his shoulders and takes in their dark arches.

The feathers are sleek.

Black.

But Aziraphale is right.

Where the candlelight catches them, they gleam in tones of gemstones.

And something eases in his chest.

“Thank you angel,” he murmurs, turning back to Aziraphale now and he barely notices the tension in his otherworldly limbs easing. His wings relax, spreading out from his shoulders to wrap lightly around them, pinions mingling with the white and gold feathers of the angel in his arms.

Both men shudder, the sensation of their truest forms merging gently washing over them and Aziraphale smiles, cupping his cheek once more.

“Of course, my dear,” he says.

Crowley hesitates for only a moment, then, taking six millennia up into his arms and lobbing it out the proverbial door, he kisses his angel.

Candles flicker, buffeted by two sets of wings rippling, black and white feathers locking together and for a long while the shop is quiet, the only sound soft sighs of wings brushing the leatherbound spines of silent, watchful books.


End file.
